


Nymeia's Drift

by Gaeliceyes



Series: Nymeia's Drift [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Ambiguous race Warrior of Light, Conjurer Warrior of Light, Explicit Consent, F/M, Fan Service, Female Warrior of Light - Freeform, Fluff, Humor, Implied soul bond, Is this the real life is this just fantasy, Kissing, No Beta We Die On This Draft, Only One Bed, Only one bed....sort of?, Soul Bond, There will probably be stealth editing though, This might not be good coffee shop trope oh well, Unamed!Warrior of Light, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:02:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28562469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gaeliceyes/pseuds/Gaeliceyes
Summary: She has travelled these paths for some weeks, in addition to studying maps of the area more than once, so it is with some surprise she comes upon a tavern and inn shortly after full dark falls, standing alone along the side of the road, on a stretch that no map had ever shown a settlement that she recalls.The two story shingled building looks weathered though, clearly not new construction, and it fits comfortably among the trees, like it was designed to complement the ancient boles towering over it. A simple sign above the door depicts a crescent moon cradling a spinning wheel, with scattered stars. “Nymeia’s Drift” is barely readable in faint traces of silver paint along the bottom.
Relationships: Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light
Series: Nymeia's Drift [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2206053
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18
Collections: Bookclub Top Trope Challenge (January 2021)





	1. The Sprout

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written in response to the January 2020 Top Trope challenge from the Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched and Enabling Bookclub. The three tropes for the challenge are Coffee Shop AU, Soul Bond, and Oops, only one bed. This is my attempt to include all three. Please enjoy this shameless fluff and fan service. Chapters will be posted as I complete them, but the whole fic WILL be completed before the end of January. 
> 
> Spoilers warning for Final Fantasy XIV content and characters from pretty much every expansion. 
> 
> Current rating is likely to change for future chapters.

Adventuring as a goal does not always measure up to reality. At least, that is one adventurer’s opinion. Leaving home to pursue the life had seemed like the obvious choice. See new people and get to help them? Visit new lands? Figure out the purpose of the vaguely sinister voice in her head? Sounded like a win-win. How could she resist? 

She is questioning her commitment at the moment, trudging through the sleeting rain, knowing she will not make Gridania by nightfall. Her own fault perhaps. She had listened but poorly when that wood wailer told her where to find the bandits she was hunting. By the time she realized she had gone the wrong direction, she was hopelessly lost. It took the rest of the day to backtrack to the spot she had gone off course, at which point she knew she would have to tackle her errand on the morrow. 

Errands, plural, in fact. So many. Fetch this, hunt that, retrieve a rare ingredient, babysit this whiny padjel. She knows she must pay her dues. One doesn’t just gain a reputation overnight, but Twelve the work can be tedious. Not to mention the skeptical looks she receives regularly from those she is helping. Of course, that too is expected, as insular and mistrustful of adventurers as Gridania is. 

There are moments of profound satisfaction as well, of course. Like when she finally heard the elemental spirits that first time. Saving a life, healing an injury, reuniting a family. There are upsides to all the grunt work. 

However at the moment her only goal is to make it to shelter for the night. It seems she miscalculated how much time it would take her to get back to the city, because full dark and stormy weather came on quickly, and she has not reached more familiar roads. It will be a long slog in the dangerous dark to get home, or a wet, miserable night under the trees at this rate. 

She has travelled these paths for some weeks, in addition to studying maps of the area more than once, so it is with some surprise she comes upon a tavern and inn shortly after full dark falls, standing alone along the side of the road, on a stretch that no map had ever shown a settlement that she recalls. When a warm yellow glow resolves itself from out of the downpour, the surprise is a welcome one. The cheery light shines out from the leaded glass windows, and smoke wafts up from the chimney. The two story shingled building looks weathered though, clearly not new construction, and it fits comfortably among the trees, like it was designed to complement the ancient boles towering over it. A simple sign above the door depicts a crescent moon cradling a spinning wheel, with scattered stars. “Nymeia’s Drift” is barely readable in faint traces of silver paint along the bottom. Even if she wasn’t cold, wet, and tired, it would have looked welcoming. The door creaks only a little as she opens it. 

There are very few patrons. At a dim table in the corner sits a party of four. They look to be adventurers, just like her. A brunette hyur lays her head on a man’s shoulder, staring dreamily up at him as he regales his fellows with some tale or another. At another table is, well how odd. It appears to be the merchant fellow who had brought her to Gridania that day so long ago, with two other gents who look suspiciously like him. He smiles, and raises one hand in greeting. She nods back, somehow touched he remembers a random nobody he had met moons before.

No one else greets her, or seems to note her arrival. She doesn’t even see anyone behind the counter. Shrugging she makes her way over to a stool anyhow, a few seats down from a rather strange looking pair drinking tea. One is in non-descript grey hooded robes, while the other is dressed rather flamboyantly in a fine coat trimmed with fur and gold epaulets. They both look over at her as she sits, and she isn’t sure which face shocks her more. 

The hooded one bears a featureless half-mask that leaves only his lips and chin revealed. The other, with a compelling face and wavy brown hair with a shock of white falling over his forehead, is clearly Garlean, as evidenced by the nodule on his forehead. He eyes her boldly, gaze lambent, a strange smirk on his face, and raises one brow when she continues to study him back. She isn’t trying to be rude. It’s not just that he is a Garlean, dressed in rich militaristic fashion, but she swears she knows his face, and cannot fathom how that could be. She can’t recall _ever_ meeting a Garlean face to face in her life.

“Enjoying the view?” his voice is butter-smooth, but with an edge of arrogance that, in her experience, comes from power. A silly thought, because why would some Garlean noble be hanging about in a backwater inn in the Black Shroud? He wouldn’t, of course. She was feeling too tired to try and untangle the mystery at the moment, though.

“I beg your pardon,” she says stiffly, turning back to eye the room again. She notices a door behind the counter, and wonders if the innkeep might be back there. She’s tired enough to fall asleep at this counter.

“Oh don’t stop on my account, although I do enjoy a good spot of begging now and again,” he simpers. When she doesn’t respond he hums to himself. She can feel his eyes examining every inch of her with unnerving thoroughness.

“Another weary wanderer, do you think, my friend?” he glances at his mysterious companion. 

“It seems so,” the figure responds, and she blinks because the voice sounds like something otherworldly, echoing strangely in her head. “A hero in the making perhaps.”

“Oh dear. A hero? How terribly dull,” the Garlean sighs dramatically, leaning back on his stool to stare at the ceiling. “Although, despite the drowned cat chic,” he leans forward again to look at her, resting his chin on his fist, eyes narrow, “you do look very familiar. Have I threatened you before, hero?”

Her mother would make a comment about catching flies, she knew, and forces her jaw closed with a snap. She can’t help the disgusted twist of her lips though. Who does this guy think he is? “If you did, it clearly wasn’t impressive enough for me to remember,” she snaps. She stands and the stool scrapes loudly over the floor. As she stalks away, defiance mildly tarnished by the squelching of her boots, she can hear them continuing to converse behind her. 

“Oh, how wounding,” the man opines, “I may never recover.” Beside him, the hooded one laughs gently, and it feels like a giant soft caress up her spine, making her shiver. 

She pushes open the door with more force than is probably necessary, calling out a terse “Hello?” as she does. A sudden loud bang and a clatter further in the dimness help her realize she is in some sort of kitchen. A head pops out from around a shelf laden with cookware. 

“Ow! What? Hmm….sorry. Yes?” A silver haired elezen steps out where she can see him. “Hello!” He smiles, a wide welcoming grin. She can’t stop staring at him. He looks nothing like any innkeeper she’s seen before. Laughing eyes of grey-blue peek out from behind locks of silky silver hair. His shoulders are broad, as is his chest, his thighs, his posture. He wears simple clothes, but carries himself like a warrior. She is very familiar with the breed, and yet he seems much less growly than most. She stifles a giggle as he tries to blow one recalcitrant lock out of his face, finally giving up and swiping at it with his forearm, his hands being full with what look like a kettle and a mug. 

“Um,” she tries to gather her thoughts back again.

“Yes?”

“I need a room,” she manages to stammer out.

“Do you? I’m terribly sorry. I would help if I could, but I only came back to make some cocoa, you see.” He blinks owlishly. “Would you like one?” he asks belatedly, a blush travelling up his cheeks. 

“I, uh…” she coughs. “No. No, thank you, I mean. Just a room.”

“Ah, yes. Well, again, I am most regretful, but….” he hefts the items in his hands again, shrugging.

She catches a glimpse of a number of keys hanging on hooks on the wall behind him, and makes a beeline. “Could I just take one then?” she asks, indicating the labeled bits of iron.

He laughs again. She notices it is a very fine laugh, open and real and honestly joyful. “Far be it from me to stop you. I…”

“How much?” she interrupts.

“Dear lady, I couldn’t possibly charge you,” he smiles wider. His eyes are dancing now, and she narrows her own suspiciously. 

“I don’t need a hand out. I have gil.” One hand reaches for the pouch at her belt, light though it may be.

“I never doubted it,” he says, voice filled with sincerity. “Are you very sure I can’t interest you in a mug of chocolate? It’s my speciality.”

For a moment she is tempted, but the trials of the day, the strangeness of this place, hit her like a tidal wave all of a sudden, and she yawns expansively. She sways as dizziness assails her. The innkeep clucks beneath his breath. One moment he is staring at her with a foolish grin, and the next his burden is dropped on the table and he is beside her, strong arms supporting her shoulders gently.

“My dear, you look done in. Wrung out. Thoroughly exhausted even.”

“I am a little tired,” she admits, yawning again.

“Then bedrest is the solution. Here, give me that,” and he gently takes the key she chose moments earlier. “Lean on me, that’s it.” It occurs to her to wonder why she listens to him. Going off alone with strangers is usually not the wisest course. Still, she kind of likes him, and somehow trusts him. He guides her out another door of the kitchen and up a set of steps. She vaguely notes they seem quite old, the stone of each stair forming a hollow in the middle from probably centuries of feet climbing up and down them. 

At the top he leads her on, muttering to himself as he peers at each door, until finally he stops with a satisfied “Ah ha!”

“We are here, dear lady,” he announces. He unlocks the door and gestures inside with a flourish. It is nothing special, a simple room, cozy and clean. She can’t stop yawning as she enters. The elezen stays out in the hall, holding out the key to her. 

“Thank you,” she says, her fingers brushing his palm as she takes the key. Before she can pull away, his hand closes around hers, fingers warm and strong gently caging hers, and her breath hitches. It is not a greedy grasp. He is clearly allowing her room to pull away. She doesn’t.

“My friend, it was my absolute pleasure to be of service. The least I could do.” His eyes are still twinkling as he brings her hand up and brushes his lips softly over the back, lingering a half-moment longer than is entirely proper. His breath is warm on her chilled skin. She shivers. 

“My name is Haurchefant, by the way,” he adds, voice soft and wicked.

“I…” she begins. 

“Do not tell me,” he stops her, “that way I have something to look forward to the next time we meet.” She can feel the blush rising as he releases her hand. He bows quite as elegantly as any nobleman and gives her a wink. “Sleep well. Sweet dreams.” She can only nod, and close the door gently in his face. Twelve take her, that is some man, is the only thought in her head as she strips out of her wet clothing and collapses on the bed and into slumber.

The next morning she wakes feeling refreshed and better than she has in ages. Warm sunlight dapples her face and birdsong fills the air. Sitting up she runs hands through her hair, but upon opening her eyes she freezes. She is not in a room, as she seems to remember, but tucked in the lee of a rock on a bed of leaves and moss. For a moment she is confused, but then reality sinks in and she sighs sadly. Well, it had been a lovely dream at least. With a groan she rises, slinging her pack onto her back and picks her way back to the road. In a few moments of walking she realizes she knows where she is, and she turns her feet toward those bandits once more. An adventurer’s work is never done.


	2. The Envoy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Never say you’ve not heard of Nymeia’s Drift before!” This blurted by Brennan, but all three look flummoxed 
> 
> “Sorry to disappoint you, but no,” Her head shakes.
> 
> “Oh, well then,” Brent sits comfortably back in his chair. “Let a few old men educate you on the matter.” She makes herself comfortable and cocks her head encouragingly.

Beneath the canopy of the Shroud darkness falls quickly as dusk approaches. Dappled sunlight gives way to the gloaming at a time of evening when other lands still turn greedy faces toward the horizon. The whistling calls of bird and beast subside in favor of clicks, croaks, and chirps, one set of inhabitants yielding their territory to their nighttime cousins. Among the paths are crumbling barrows, their purpose abandoned long ago, home now only to forgotten kings and deluded, desperate men. 

From the grim and ghastly maw of one such ancient necropolis, a novice conjurer emerges. She is tired, and sore, her face streaked with grave dirt and other less savory substances. She leans against the crypt entrance and stares out into the grey dusk already gathering beneath the trees. She wonders, not for the first time, if she has made the right choices. Her wrist aches, as does her shoulder, and a gash to her thigh throbs. Her hempen tunic has three new tears to be mended. 

She pulls a vial from her pack, thumbing the cork off with a practiced flick. Grimacing at the sight of her torn, ragged nail, she nonetheless dismisses it and swallows the pink liquid inside that definitely does _not_ taste like watermelon as advertised. A single gag, but she holds it down, and the warmth spreads across her skin as she feels her injuries knit together. She rolls her shoulder and stretches her hand, satisfied at the range of movement restored. She could have used magic, but she feels drained after recent exertions. 

Behind her, three more emerge. A large muscular roe grins at her joyfully, and drops one hulking paw on her sore shoulder. “Well, friend, that went well. You did good!” She thinks his name is Jolly River, or something like that. His laugh is booming, teeth flashing behind a well trimmed beard. She forces a smile and nods. Behind him the surly bowman nods as he wanders off, and their timid friend, who nonetheless has outstripped them all in battlefield fury, smiles shyly, fingering her blade. 

“You did a good job keeping us alive,” the rogue says softly.

“Aye, a fine job,” Jolly grins again. “We head back to Bentbranch. Care to join us for a celebratory tipple?” Startled as she is by the invitation, the young conjurer shakes her head quickly, lips tight. 

“Thank you, uh, no. It’s back to the road for me.” The declaration is firm. “I’ll just take my portion now, if it’s all the same.” 

Jolly and the rogue look at each other, and the big Roegadyn shrugs amiably. “Suit yourself. Maybe we’ll cross paths again someday.”

“Maybe,” she spills the coins into her purse, cinching it tightly. Nodding to them, she walks away, humming to herself in time with the buzzing of cicadas. The party of three compatriots travels away in the opposite direction, Jolly’s voice carrying through the evening air as he starts embellishing their shared adventure in the Deepcroft.

She turns south, toward the dry canyons of Thanalan. Perhaps she should have joined them, but she just doesn’t feel the pull of camaraderie that the invitation promised. She is a solitary wanderer, after all, used to her own company, and with little patience for small talk with strangers. Mother Moiunne had mentioned some request for help in Ul’dah. She’s had enough of the Twelveswood for now. Time for drier climes.

She takes the scenic route, travelling well trod roads until leafy bowers give way to arid cliffs. It is not just drier in Thanalan, but noticeably warmer the further south she goes. Days bleed together, marked only by stopping now and again to help a traveller. Always moving on, that is her motto. She can’t find adventure standing still. It’s a nice break honestly. She has gained no small amount of notoriety in Gridania, and more often than not people were seeking her out wanting this or that. She hadn’t thought, when she started down this path, about the consequences of becoming a well-known adventurer. In Ul’dah she will be just another face in the crowd, which is fine by her. Soon enough there will be some other poor aspiring hero to grab the spotlight and she can adventure in peace.

It is evening, perhaps a day or so from Ul’dah by her reckoning, when she comes upon a crossroad. At the junxure stands a building of plaster and stone, clearly having seen better days, but well maintained nonetheless. Hanging above the door is a very familiar sign. “Nymeia’s Drift” is spelled out in the same faint silver lettering that seems to glimmer in the moonrise, moon and spinning wheel above, as one she has seen before . She blinks at the overwhelming sense of deja vu. Better, in fact, she somehow feels certain it is the _exact same sign_. But that would be impossible, wouldn’t it?

Intrigue persuades her to venture inside. Disbelief stops her just inside the door. She huffs an incredulous laugh, but there is no denying her very eyes. The interior matches exactly with her memories of the inn from her dream, although more populated. A surprise in itself since she hasn’t met a single soul this entire day of travel. It is all the same; dark wood floors worn shiny with time, scattered tables, dim lighting. She finds her eyes drifting toward the bar and tries to ignore the flash of disappointment when she doesn’t see a certain silver head of hair. 

“Ho there, lass!” she hears a vaguely familiar voice call out. “Fancy seeing you here again!”

She turns toward the call, only to run face first into an immovable mailed chest. Two gauntleted hands catch her arms as she stumbles back. “Excuse me,” she mutters, glancing up, only to be met with the featureless visage of a closed helm. The grim lips thin, and the firm jaw clenches. He, or she, is tall, and clad head to toe in armor adorned with spikes and spines. Even the helm is pointed, with curving horns. On their back rises a wicked looking lance like nothing she has seen before.

The warrior doesn’t respond, just releases her as she steps aside. They stare at her for perhaps a half moment more before rolling their shoulders in an easy shrug, tipping their head in acknowledgment, and striding out the door. She blinks in confusion at the blast of icy air that hits her as they leave. A moment later she remembers what she is about and looks around. 

At the very same table she had seen in her dream sit the same three men, all looking at her. The merchant beckons to her welcomingly and she picks her way across the room, trying not to bump any chairs. 

“Well, well, if it ain’t the savior of the Twelveswood!” the merchant crows. She glances furtively around, but no one seems to have heard him. He raises a brow. “Oh, keeping it incognito are you? Well, that’s fine by me. Sit, sit. You look road weary.” She pulls up a chair, dropping her pack gratefully.

“Hello, again,” she says cautiously.

“Hello, adventurer,” he smiles back. “I knew when I first saw you that you’d be one I could brag of having met, didn’t I say so?” He glances at the other two men, who nod amiably. “I don’t think I ever told you my name, did I? I’m Brent. This is Brennan and Bremondt, my brothers. How do you do?” She clasps hands with each in turn, smiling back at their friendly greetings.

“Well enough,” she shrugs. 

“Good. Good. It seems adventuring agrees with you. You’ve taken to it nicely. ” 

She takes a moment to look around again, then back at the three men staring at her expectantly. “Yes, um. Forgive my ignorance, but what is this place? I assume you know since you were here before, although I could have sworn that was a dream.”

“Well, it’s Nymeia’s Drift,” Brent points out helpfully.

“So the sign says,” her voice is dry as she rolls her eyes. The three brothers look at each other.

“Never say you’ve not heard of Nymeia’s Drift before!” This blurted by Brennan, but all three look flummoxed 

“Sorry to disappoint you, but no,” Her head shakes.

“Oh, well then,” Brent sits comfortably back in his chair. “Let a few old men educate you on the matter.” She makes herself comfortable and cocks her head encouragingly.

“Many a tale can be told of the wandering waystation dubbed Nymeia’s Drift. Tis a favorite story for young and old, but most especially those looking for love.”

“Not just love, now, brother,” Bremondt breaks in. He looks at her, “Destiny.”

“Fate,” Brennan chimes in.

“Here now, I’m telling the story!” The two grumble and shrug, but fall quiet. Brent clears his throat. “So, legend tells this mysterious tavern can be found on lonely roads, a beacon to weary travelers, a welcome respite to their long journey. It is said that if the Inn appears to a tired rambler and they wander inside, they will discover their destiny. Perhaps they will learn their purpose in life, or discover their path forward out of difficulty, or maybe even meet their soulmate.”

The brothers all nod sagely.

“It cannot be found by searching, though uncounted numbers have tried. No one knows why it appears where it does, nor why those who encounter it do so, but it is always gone again by morning. To those it does find, it changes their lives, forever.” He sits back with a smile, recitation finished. 

“Destiny,” she deadpans. They nod. “You must be joking.” Her mind deftly shies away from the thought of Hydaelyn’s voice in her head, of the elemental crystals that have become part of her.

“Not in the least!” Brent looks mildly offended.

“If this is such a mystery, then how come you three were here last time and are here again.”

“Well,” Brennan laughs, “That’s its own mystery, to be sure. We try not to question it much. We three work very different circuits and seldom see each other except when the Drift appears. Perhaps it is Nymeia’s way of keeping us connected for some reason.”

“We just take it as the blessing it is, truthfully,” says Bremondt. He looks fondly at his two siblings. “And we enjoy guessing things about the people we see. We never see the same people twice, or at least, we haven’t until now.” His brows rise significantly as they look her up and down. 

“Maybe I missed something last time and Nymeia’s just trying to get my attention,” she jokes.

“Could be,” Brent says seriously, “or it could be you’ve a lot of destiny ahead of you.” His eyebrows waggle then, and she barks out a laugh. 

“I doubt it. I’m happy enough being an average adventurer, thank you.” She looks around the room again. “So, tell me some of these guesses you make?”

“Hrm, let’s see,” Brent squints as he studies the scattered tables and occupants. “How about...that one?” They all turn to look at a young red-headed Mi’qote sitting alone at the end of the bar. He has a small leatherbound tome open beside him and is writing feverishly in a notebook. 

“Hoo boy. That’s a mess waiting to happen, that is,” says Brennan. 

“Why don’t you try it first? What do you notice about him?” Brent interrupts, looking at her.

“I. He’s alone, too far away from anyone else for conversation. That must be lonely, or maybe he prefers it that way. He’s educated, seems to be studying or making notes.” She looks at Brent and he quirks a brow, but she just shrugs. “I have no idea, honestly.” Brent nods amiably and looks at Brennan, who picks up where he left off.

“You’ve a good eye. I say he’s a scholar, from Sharlayan by the cut of his tunic, but look at the shiny bow next to him. Wants to adventure, but seems pretty solitary, as you said. Also can’t turn his back on learning something new, even on the road. He’ll either become a hermit or a world renowned expert on something I wager, but probably not much of an adventurer.”

“Or both,” Brendt says, winking at her. She laughs. 

“Ok, what about those two?” She gestures to a booth across the room with two men conversing animatedly. Their voices are hushed enough that the words can’t be heard, but they are clearly having a heated debate of some sort. One is tall and lanky, blonde hair fashionably spiked. His back is braced against the wall, legs stretched out to claim the whole of the bench on his side, as if by right. He has an air of superiority she has seen more than once before, usually undeserved. He is even wearing sunglasses inside, which frankly tells her all she needs to know of the man. His hand waves negligently as he expounds to his companion. 

That man is stockier. He is holding his head in his hands at the moment, so all she can see is his slightly unkempt white hair and neatly trimmed beard. His shoulders are shaking, whether laughing or crying at whatever the first one is saying is unclear.

“Friends,” says Brennan.

“Mm. Lovers,” says Bremondt after some consideration.

“Ah! Rivals!” Brent bangs his fist lightly on the table as if that ends the discussion. The three of them then start talking rapidly over each other, each defending their own supposition. Their guest studies the two subjects for a bit longer, then she looks between the three of them and smiles cheekily. 

“Why not all three?” Their eyes swivel to her in surprise before they all break out in laughter.

“Well enough, lass. Anything is possible,” Brent chuckles. “Perhaps you can tell us one day who got it right.”

She blinks. “Me? How should I know?”

“Well, this is all for you, isn’t it?” He gestures at the half-full room. She just looks at him in confusion. 

“I don’t know any of these people.” She is unreasonably irritated at his suggestion and doesn’t know why.

“Well, you wouldn’t, would you?” Bremondt states kindly. “That’s why it’s destiny. These fine folks are all in your future.” She sits, silenced by shock, and tries to process his words. 

“If that were true, shouldn’t I have met the people from last time?” she puzzles.

“Well, we’re not experts on how it works by any means,” Brent laughs, “but are you sure you met none?”

“No, I…” but she stops, thinking about a scene she had witnessed in the Carline Canopy as she was preparing to brave the depths of the deepcroft. Wasn’t that young conjurer the one she had seen on her last visit? The one who lost her fiancé? And if so, well, what kind of destiny was that? She had only seen the girl in passing, overheard the angry disbanding of her group. It seemed almost mundane. “Maybe, but not all of them.” Like that Garlean, she hadn’t met him or his strange friend. Or Haurchefant. She would have enjoyed seeing him again, she thinks.

She yawns suddenly and feels the weight of long days of travel. “Well, as fascinating as this is, I’m tired. I think I’ll try to track down the innkeeper and get a room. I may wake up someplace strange, but at least I’ll sleep comfortably.” She shrugs and smirks, pushing back her chair. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen him?”

The three men look at each other in some surprise. “I didn’t even know they had rooms, as such,” Brent admits, a question in his eyes to his brothers. They shrug and shake their heads, murmuring their mutual ignorance. 

“A bartender or waiter then? How did you get your drinks?” She is trying mightily to keep her tone pleasant.

“Well, how did you get yours?” Bemondt asks, nodding at the table in front of her. She looks down and blinks, huffing. A large pint of cold, frothy liquid sits at her place, and she realizes she is parched. She takes it, sniffs; the hoppy bitterness fills her nose. Her expression is dubious as she eyes the tempting offering.

One of the brothers laughs. “My advice, friend, take what you will from here and don’t question it too much.” She has nothing to say to that except to hum consideringly. She raises the pint to the three grinning peddlers.

“Thank you, again, for your help.”

“Aye, our pleasure,” Brents eyes twinkle. As she walks away, he calls out, “I look forward to the tales you’ll tell when next we meet, adventurer!”

She slips between the tables like a ghost, mug forgotten in her hand. She can’t help but look closer at the occupants now, wondering how true the tales filling her head. Her mind is roiling, her heart seething with a strange mix of emotions. Could it be true? Could all these people be destined to play some part in her life? It seems absurd, and terrifying. 

At one table is a sun bronzed elezen, teeth flashing as the band of ruffians around him laugh and cheer. Another group, the camaraderie evident, talks easily together. She studies them, a cheerful lalafell in blush pink, a laughing blonde that commands the attention of the lot everytime she softly speaks, a smirking mi’qote tapping her cheek with one fist as she listens, eyes shining. Her eyes land on the man with them and a blush rises. He is watching her from beneath white fringe, and as soon as he notices her noticing, his eyes travel from her toes back to her face, a lazy smile blooming on his face. Then he winks, and she turns away, flustered and suddenly too warm. If she does meet that one, she makes a note to keep an eye on him.

She stops at the bar, eyeing the door to the back room, but sits instead. Sipping on her brew and fiddling with a napkin, she watches the occupants of the room and lets her thoughts drift. Inevitably they land on a certain smile, a joyful laugh. It is ridiculous how often her idle mind is occupied thinking of one man she has only spoken with for a few moments in time. Even now, she swears she could smell the chocolate and spice scent she remembers from months before.

“Am I intruding, dear lady?” She is so startled to hear the object of her musings that she whips around and elbows him in the chest, sending the mugs he is holding flying across the floor. 

“Haurchefant!” she jumps up. “I am so sorry! Are you ok?”

His eyes sparkle as he takes in her flustered face. “Peace, I am more than well. It is I who should apologize. I didn’t intend to startle you.”

“Oh, but look what I did. Your drinks…” She bends to pick up one mug, now empty, and catches the rich chocolate scent.

“Pay them no mind,” His voice is jovial. “Twas merely an offering to entice you to spend more time with me. But since you’ve injured me grievously, I now have the perfect excuse to be in the company of a...healer? Yes?” He waggles his brows and glances at the leafy wand hanging from her belt.

“Grievously injured,” she deadpans, squinting at him skeptically. 

“Shall I show you?” His voice is innocent, but his nimble fingers immediately jump to the buttons at his collar. She feels the warmth rise in her cheeks as words flee from her lips. An inane giggle seems to escape instead and she clamps her lips shut to contain it.

“I...uh...don’t think that’s necessary…” Is that faint squeak her voice? Realizing she has just declined his flirtatious invitation, her shoulders tense, bracing herself for the usual wheedling everyone else resorts to when she shows any sign of rejecting their perfectly reasonable demands for her time and talent.

Instead the tall elezen deflates dramatically, “Alas, I shall simply suffer in silence then.” He leans down with an exaggerated wince, startling another bark of laughter from her, and scoops up the second mug. He grins as he straightens again. “Will you favor me with your company in conversation instead, perhaps?” He looks so hopeful and sincere. She takes a moment to study him, and the glow of relief she feels when she concludes he really is...sincere...is heartwarming. She grins back and pats the barstool beside the one she had been occupying. His eyes sparkle with delight and he practically leaps onto the seat, tossing the empty mug behind the bar.

She listens to the clatter of the wooden vessel on the stone floor, then glances at him. He is propping his chin on one hand, staring eagerly at her. His smile is infectious. “You don’t work here,” she states. “Do you?”

“Not in the least, dear lady,” he chortles. 

“Why did you let me think…”

“Ah, well it seemed the most chivalrous choice at the time. I have always believed a knight lives to serve. You needed help and I wanted to help you, without a lot of fuss and bother getting in the way. Besides, I make it a firm policy never to argue with beautiful dream ladies.”

“Dream ladies?” Her eyes are skeptical.

“A dream come true, no doubt,” he says with a wink, and she laughs. He is charming in the extreme, and he knows it.

“So, you’re a knight, hrm?” she is curious if she can learn more about him. “From where, pray tell? The only knights I can think of are the Knights of the Barracuda in Limsa.”

“Worthy folk, I am sure, but no. Ishgard,” he sits up and spreads his arms wide as if on display. The heraldry on his tunic is a unicorn head. She is not well versed in history, but she doesn’t think that is the Ishgardian symbol. “Fair, freezing Ishgard, where men are men and karakul are scared.” She guffaws, then clamps both hands over her mouth, but can’t stop the twinkle in her eyes. 

“You…you are a terrible rogue, sir. I find it hard to believe you are a knight.”

“You wound me!” He clutches his chest. “Can I help that I am perfectly placed to make light of my own folk? I jest of course. But you...where are you from?”

“Oh here and there. Nowhere in particular. I travel around and...help people.”

“An adventurer. I knew it! How thrilling. Tell me more.” She finds herself drawn to share her travels with him, telling him of the dungeons and the city-states, the monsters and the missions, the people she has helped, and those she has failed to. She even laughingly tells him about the theory that this inn is the infamous Nymeia’s Drift, which curls his lips into a smile. “That I should be so lucky, to encounter you in the world in truth, instead of my dreams.”

The longer they talk, the more she likes him. He never imposes, never tries for more than this time with her. He doesn’t just hear and nod, he listens, asking prescient questions and laughing with her at her less heroic episodes. By the time yawns are overtaking her the evening has passed quicker than she imagined. They are comfortably seated in a booth now, shoulder to shoulder, having moved some time before. When the fifth or so yawn arrives in quick succession, he places one hand on her shoulder, searching her eyes for a protest as he does.

“I believe our little interlude is winding down, or at least your energy reserves are. As much as it pains me to depart from your company, I suspect you need your rest.”

“Probably,” the word is distorted by yet another wide yawn. 

“Wait here a moment.” He dashes away, only to return in one long slow blink of her tired eyes to hold out his hand. “May I escort you to your quarters, dear lady?”

“No funny business,” she waggles one finger in front of his face. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he assures her, pulling her to her feet, “and believe me, I’ve tried. Every night, in fact, since the first time I dreamt of you, as I lay in my cold, lonely bed,” she pokes him, cutting off the melodrama with a laugh. His face settles into a light smile, but she senses the sincerity behind it. “I have prayed to the Fury that I might dream of you again. She has answered my prayers this night. I’m grateful.”

They stop in front of a numbered door, and she realizes she missed the whole climb up the stairs. Clearly she needs sleep. She looks at his hand as he unlocks the door. “Did you steal another key?”

“Another? My dear, at the risk of sounding ungentlemanly, I regret to point out that it was YOU who stole the last one.” He presses the key into her hand, wrapping her fingers around it. His warm hands linger for a moment, cupping hers, and the gentle brush as he pulls away sends thrills of warmth up arms.

“So it was,” she admits faintly. She is having trouble remembering what she is supposed to be doing. Her thoughts are filled by the sweep of his silvery lashes, the faint part of his lips. 

“May I kiss you?” he whispers. His arms have drifteddown to hover at her waist, close, but not yet touching. Waiting. His eyes, clear and blue as an alpine lake, demand nothing. Patient. 

“Yes,” she nods ever so faintly. His smile becomes pure delight, even as his eyes darken. Hands, large and strong, steal to rest lightly at her hips. His neck bows to rest his forehead against hers. She leans into him, hands spread to brace herself against his broad chest. His body feels like a furnace through the layers of wool.

His lips alight on hers, soft and warm, like a gentle butterfly. Perhaps too gently. Her arms drift up to his shoulders so she can reach his hair. She has wanted to know how it feels and is delighted at the sheer luxurious softness as her hands bury themselves, using the leverage to firm the press of her lips to his. One finger brushes the edge of his ear, and once gentle hands clamp harder at her waist as he gasps against her mouth. 

It is all the encouragement he needs. He wraps his arms around her, spreading his fingers at her back to knead and pull her closer into his body. His mouth slants over hers and begs for access, which she sweetly provides. Who knows how long the kiss lasts, all sighs and soft wet sounds. They cling to each other, their bodies nearly fused, for an eternity of longing. 

When he finally, reluctantly, pulls away, it is with a rueful chuckle. “I was sure a kiss would be enough, but that was clearly folly. Every dream must end, though I suspect there will be consequences to bear when I awake.” His hand reaches up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear, even as her own pull away. She is already feeling the loss of him.

She yawns again, and they both laugh at the timely interruption. Taking one hand in his, he bows over it gallantly. “Until we meet again, dream lady,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to her knuckles. “In the meantime, I will be thinking of you when I wake.”

She forces herself to open the door and slip inside. She looks back at him, standing forlornly in the hall. “Sweet dreams, Haurchefant,” she smiles cheekily.

“How can I ask for more when I have already been given a feast," he smirks back, bowing again. "I will be praying for a next time.” 

Closing that door feels like the hardest thing she has ever done. As she drifts to sleep in the warm quilts, she realizes she still has not told him her name.“I hope I really do get the chance to meet you in the outside world,” she whispers into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I blame the wholesome, debauched, and enabling friends in the [Book Club ](https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic) for goading my brain into creating this. Check it out if you want more amazing FFXIV fanfic food.


	3. The Bringer of LIght

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wind is a howling nightmare, driving icy shards straight into the face of any hapless travellers, blinding unshielded eyes and obscuring normally well trodden paths. The heavily bundled figure currently bracing into the gusts trudges through the rising drifts, exhaustion clearly heavy on their shoulders. Out of the deadly white haze, they chance a glimpse of light. They shake their head, sure it is a mirage brought on by desperation and fatigue, but turn their steps toward that flicker of hope none-the-less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some liberties with dialogue, but only slightly.

The wind is a howling nightmare, driving icy shards straight into the face of any hapless travellers, blinding unshielded eyes and obscuring normally well trodden paths. The heavily bundled figure currently bracing into the gusts trudges through the rising drifts, exhaustion clearly heavy on their shoulders. Out of the deadly white haze, they chance a glimpse of light. They shake their head, sure it is a mirage brought on by desperation and fatigue, but turn their steps toward that flicker of hope none-the-less. Step by grueling step, fulm by fulm, they make steady, arduous progress toward the teasing glimpses of brightness, like a wil-o-the-wisp luring fools to their doom. In the whiteout, they cannot see more than a few feet ahead of them, so when they reach the door, they nearly smack into it. They fumble with the latch, hands stiff with cold, before finally managing to pull it open and stumble inside. They blink, wiping at ice encrusted lashes, looking around. Shadows edge their vision, the last burst of energy draining away. “Oh, a mirage after all,” they whisper bleakly as darkness overtakes them.

***************

She thinks with wistful sadness on the before times. Before Titan and Ifrit. Before the deepcroft. Before the Scions and the echo and the infamy. Before she had to bring Noraxia’s body back to her people with little more than platitudes on her tongue while still wondering fearfully at the fate of her own colleagues. 

She has tried again and again to think of a different path she could have taken, but time after time the choices were really no choice at all. Nothing would have changed where she sits now, alone in a crowded room of people she doesn’t yet know. 

The main room of Nymeia’s Drift is packed this time. The idea that she is connected by destiny to the dozens of people in this room is overwhelming. Every table is full, the noise is deafening, and she has stopped trying to remember their faces. From young to old, viera to lalafel, it seems as if the entire star is tied to her.

She doesn’t question the connection though. Her last visit had shown her the Scions, and not two weeks later she had met them all, including Thancred who absolutely needed to be watched closely, the flirt. Also Cid. She asked him once who the blonde man was, but his memories were still hazy and he just shrugged and looked troubled. Just as well he isn’t here tonight. He and Alphinaud are back at the Observatorium, trying to convince the stubborn Ishgardians to help them find the  _ Enterprise _ .

This is the drift of her thoughts as she sits alone nursing her ale. No merchant brothers or gallant knights to distract her from her gloomy musings. Then the door slams open and an ice rimed figure stumbles inside and collapses on the floor. The volume never changes. No one seems to notice except her.    
  
She runs to them, kneeling down to check their state. Out the open entrance an aether fueled blizzard howls, a wall of swirling snow and ice. She sees their back rise in a steady breath and takes a moment to secure the door before tending them. It is a bit of a struggle getting them to turn face up, they are shivering so hard. Once she unwraps the lengths of wool wrapped around their face and head she is greeted by a familiar face, blue with cold.

“Haurchefant!” her normally steady hands shaking slightly, settling on his forehead, his cheeks, her gut clenching at the icy feel of his skin. At her exclamation his ice crusted lashes lift, and dazed blue eyes find hers. A corner of his mouth twitches. 

“It’s you,” his voice is weak. “Good.” His eyes start to drift closed again. 

“Oh no you don’t,” she mutters through clenched teeth. She pulls one mailed arm over her shoulder and neck, bracing one boot on the floor for added leverage. “No going to sleep. Get up, Haurchefant.” He groans, but doesn’t move. “Get UP!” she grits out again, yanking on his arm. He shifts up an ilm, but no more. 

“Tired,” he breathes.

“I know. I know you are.” Her own voice is breathy with panic. “You can’t go to sleep on me. Haurchefant...I need your help here. You’re hypothermic. We need to get you warm, but I can’t carry you myself. Come on. Come on now. Open your eyes. That’s it. Good. Good. You can rest soon, but I need you to get up now. Can you do that? For me?”

Dark blue pupils cling to her face through slitted lids. His lips curl again. “Any...a-anything f-for you,” he slurs out. His arm tightens around her shoulders, and between the two of them they manage to help him rise. She keeps talking. Whispering words of encouragement, praising him for every hard fought fulm. She alternately cajoles and orders him, getting him upright, then one step, and another. He is nearly dead weight against her back at first, barely helping them progress, but it is enough. 

“Where are you taking me?” They are at the base of the stairs, where she pauses for a breather. He seems to have regained some strength and is moving better. 

“To a bed.”

“Mmmm. Bed is good. You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say that.” He nuzzles his face into the crook of her neck, brushing cold lips against sensitive skin. The shock of it sends levin thrilling down her spine. 

“Oh?” she asks, a blush rising. She knows it is probably the cold talking, but she can’t help the rush of desire his words provoke. She looks at the long climb before them. He is busy breathing deep of her, nose buried by her ear. “Well, I need you to move then. The bed,” she points, “is up there.”

“Say no more, my lady,” he pulls back and grins at her, stumbling a bit. His free hand grabs her hip. “I will follow you anywhere, but especially there.” 

“Haurchefant, you’re drunk. Or good as, with the cold.” Her voice is breathless.

“But I feel like I’m on fire,” he breathes into her ear. She’s starting to as well. 

She starts the climb, and mercifully he follows. To her relief there is an unlocked room with a cheerful fire already burning in the hearth.

“Almost there. You’re doing so good.”

“You have no idea how good I c-can b-be,” he slurs. An amused snort escapes her. He is leaning heavily against the door, breathing hard. She knows his strength is flagging.

“Just a little more,” she coaxes. A groan, a nod, clinging to her like a barnacle. Together they manage to stumble to the bed just as his legs finally give out. She hip checks him before he falls to the floor then bundles him onto the bed with a heave and a grunt. She reaches for the armor clasps at his shoulder.

“So eager,” his eyes somehow twinkle, but his lips are purple. She is becoming concerned as the lethargy becomes more pronounced. He moves to help her, then looks dismayed when he can barely lift his arms more than an ilm off the comforter. Bleary blue eyes blink at her. “A-apolo-shies, my d-dream, I seem to be having some trouble.”

“Then let me,” she reassures him, and he relaxes. Just like that he slips into stillness. No more wicked innuendos falling from his lips. Asleep or unconscious, she isn’t sure. The shivering has stopped, and she notes his breathing becoming shallow. “Oh no you don’t. Don’t you dare,” she grits out, diving back to the arduous task of stripping an unconscious man out of heavy armor with renewed fervor. 

Thus does she end up naked but for her smalls in bed with the equally nearly naked knight, every inch of skin she can manage plastered against his bare back, her arms wrapped around his broad shoulders. The fire is roaring, stoked to a near conflagration moments before. Once they are snuggled beneath the quilt, she channels aether into her hands, gently smoothing the energy into his skin, warming him bit by bit. 

She tells herself it is necessary. But her fingers are reverent as they hover over his skin. So close, only formless aether between her palm and the curve of his shoulder, each stroke a secret study. The urge to touch him in truth is a bone deep ache in her fingers. She is a fiend, lusting after his body when he is helpless to stop such an exploration. 

The passage of time is meaningless, marked only by the changes in his condition. He is shivering again. She stops channeling and just holds him, speaking hushed words as wave after wave of violent shudders take him over. Stillness again, only now his breaths are deep and even, a healing sleep. How strange the swell of feelings consuming her. 

Lust, fear, breathless delight. Blessed relief.

He tosses his head. Turns over in the throes of dream, caging her in his arms, clutching her close, face buried in her throat. Her hand strokes the softness of his hair, tangling fingers in silken strands. He will recover now, the danger past, but she cannot find it in her to extricate herself. Her own weariness devours her, and she sleeps.

Awareness returns in time, her waking mind drawn out by some small sensation, barely felt. A delicate touch, a brush of calloused skin light against her hip. She sucks in a breath as it happens again. Beside her Haurchefant releases a shuddering breath of his own. Her eyes open to meet bright blue regard, drinking her in. She feels exposed beneath his gaze.

One large hand, roughened by swordplay, squeezes her hip, slides up her back in a slow drag of warmth and pressure. She can’t help arching into it, unconsciously seeking more in her hazy pre-wakened state. His lips quirk, palm brushing back down and up again. 

“So responsive. Halone is merciful. I could ask for no better way to go, than seeing your face, feeling you against me,” he whispers.

“What do you mean, go?” Eyes narrow as she comes more to herself.

“I must have succumbed to the cold. If I have fallen asleep, then I will not last the night in this storm. But I am content to die in your arms at least, my dream lady.” He leans in, lips parted, and she pulls away. Her brows are furrowed deep, but she is struggling not to smile. 

“Haurchefant, you dear idiot,” she rasps in a voice rough with sleep, “You aren’t asleep in some snowdrift. And you had better not be dying after all I did to keep you alive.”

He blinks, looking confused. “But we’re in my dream…”

“No, we’re in Nymeia’s drift. You wandered in hours ago, near dead from hypothermia.”

“How can that be?”

“I long ago stopped trying to figure it out.”

“If that is so, then I believe I must apologize for taking advantage of a sleeping beauty,” his voice is wry. “Would that this were a dream, that I might do more.”

She laughs even as the heat of desire blushes over her cheeks. Trying to distract from her wayward thoughts, she asks, “How by the Twelve did you manage to get yourself into that situation in the first place? Aren’t you Ishgardians used to the snow by now?”   
  
It is his turn to blush, looking sheepish. “I am embarrassed to admit my culpability. Pure inattention, dear lady. My chocobo startled, and I was...ahem, daydreaming about hot chocolate and even hotter…” He waggles his brows at her, but his eyes are smoldering. “Needless to say, I was unable to keep my seat. The storm was already in full force and my bird ran off into the white.” His brow furrows, “I do hope it made it to the stables all right. We really should have almost been there.”

“Alas, I must have gotten turned around in the storm and started walking the wrong direction. A lesson well learned, I should think, instead of a deadly mistake.” She rests her head on his chest, sinking into the feel of his hand rubbing up and down her back, as if unconsciously seeking comfort. The thought of what might have been is a bleak pit in her stomach.

“I should go. You’re out of danger now. No need for me to impose on you any longer.” She moves to get up. His arms do not ease, nor do they tighten. 

“I would have you stay, if you are willing,” he says softly, holding her attention with warm, accepting eyes. With a little more effort she can squirm free. He is not keeping her. 

“You’re still recovering,” she scolds. His mouth widens at the lack of immediate denial. 

“Rest only tonight, knight’s honor,” he says solemnly, and now he does pull her tight against him. Her nose is in the hollow of his throat, breathing in the musky, cinnamon scent of him. She relaxes into the embrace, feeling too tired and safe. “I can’t promise such a thing for the morning, however.” His voice is wicked sinful satin. 

“Haurchefant,” she purrs,”I can safely assure you that the next time I see you, whenever that might be, I will keep you in bed until we are both too tired to move.” He groans into her hair, fingers spasming at her back and hip.

“Cruel minx,” he moans. “How can you expect me to sleep now with such a promise?”

“Good night, Haurchefant,” she says. She knows she will not see him in the morning.

“Sweet dreams,” he presses a kiss into her hair.

************************************

Haurchefant wakes to the relieved shouts of his troops. He squints into the crisp, clear cold of the morning, blue sky bright above him, and curses his luck. He is burrowed in a hollow of snow, deep beneath an overhanging rock. There is a small opening in the snow for air. He cannot say how he managed to construct the snow shelter, his memory filled with the dream of the night before as it is, there is no room for what happened before. He punches his way out of the packed snow, struggling to make stiff limbs obey him. His hands ache, which, while painful, is at least a good sign that they are not frostbitten beyond redemption.

He forces his way halfway out, pausing to rest with heavy pants. His voice is a raspy croak, “Here!” Not loud enough, Fury take it. He tries again, and again, until someone hears him. Within minutes they are digging him out, exclaiming in relief and surprise at his remarkably not dead condition. He feels both gratified and insulted. Once they pull him out he looks around, instantly recognizing where he is, less than a malm from Camp Dragonhead, by the look of it. His heart sinks. He had almost believed, in that hazy dream that it was not a dream at all. He doesn’t protest as his men help him hobble back to camp and the un-tender ministrations of the physick. 

Recovery is surprisingly quick over the next week. Even the doctor is startled at how little injury he sustained from the cold.  _ Almost as if most of my night was spent someplace warm. _ He brushes the musing aside. It doesn’t do to dwell on impossible wishes.. He learned that lesson long ago. Better to focus on the good that is, here and now, and not a thing that does not exist. Does it quell the flame of hope in his breast? Of course not. He has never been good at listening to dreary reason.

When the doors to the war room creak open near the end of a long day, he barely glances up. Corentiaux is greeting the bulky, scarf laden figure at the door. He hears his name, and looks a little longer, studying the arrival. Overburdened with layers, they are clearly not native to Coerthas. An outsider then, someone new to learn about and befriend. He feels the dull weariness of the day lift. 

“Ah, the unmistakable swagger of a well-traveled adventurer. If you are come to pay your respects, be at ease, friend. I am not one to stand on formality.” He stands to greet them, arms wide in welcome. They stop dead in their tracks, staring at him through the frost edged opening in their scarves, dark eyes the only piece of them visible. 

“From Lord Francel, it seems,” his third in command mutters, handing him a letter sealed with the crest of House Haillenarte. The newcomer still hasn’t spoken, but has started to unwrap the heavy wool around their head and face. 

“Truth be told, I would gladly welcome many and more brave souls like yourself. But enough chatter─” he chuckles at his own prattling, starting to skim the letter. “Pray tell me why you have come.” He pauses reading to look up once more and the words die on his lips. 

His heart is thundering. The room shrinks to nothing. Because it is her. She. His dream lady, in the flesh, dripping very real snowmelt onto his very real stone floor, her soft lips curled in a rueful grin. 

“Hello, Haurchefant.” Her voice is mild and sweet, exactly as he remembers it. Someone is talking, Yaelle, having taken the letter and exclaiming in shock over it’s contents. She is speaking to him, and he tears his eyes away from drinking in his lady’s face.

“...accusing Francel, of all people!”

His brows collapse, disbelief creeping into his voice. “If there is any justice in this world, these charges will receive no serious consideration,” he growls. “It is beyond inconceivable... “

He looks at her again. Did she step closer? Did he? “Ah, yes. The letter made mention of a pressing matter for which you required assistance. What might that be?” He speaks quickly, nearly babbling.  _ Tellme tellme tellme,  _ he thinks,  _ let me help you. Anything! _

Somehow he focuses on her words. Somehow he responds appropriately, without instantly promising to travel to the ends of the earth to assist her search. Some shred of his mind reminding him of his duty. He wants to throw himself at her feet and beg her to let him help.

“In the meantime,” he captures her hand, shorn of glove, rubbing it lightly between his fingers, “please enjoy the hospitality of Camp Dragonhead.  _ I _ will see that you are afforded  _ every _ courtesy as a guest of House Fortemps.”

“Thank you,  _ Lord  _ Haurchefant,” she says smoothly, her grin widening. Her eyes sparkle with devilment and smoldering heat. “Speaking of, I was wondering if I might have a chance to meet with you privately? A personal matter of a promise I made to someone that I hope you might help me keep.”

“Oh yes,” he breathes. “Definitely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm relieved to have completed this, even if it wasn't quite within the time limit. Also, I think I've brushed up against the three tropes, but perhaps not encapsulated them quite as they are intended to be. 
> 
> I might actually write the smut chapter as a separate installment. Someday. We'll see.

**Author's Note:**

> I blame the wholesome, debauched, and enabling friends in the [Book Club ](https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic) for goading my brain into creating this. Check it out if you want more amazing FFXIV fanfic food.


End file.
